Smells Like Trouble
by happycabbage75
Summary: Something just doesn't smell right... A motel stay gives our boys an ugly surprise.
1. Chapter 1

**Smells Like Trouble**

Summary: Something just doesn't smell right… A motel stay gives our boys an ugly surprise.

Disclaimer: Is it just me or do these things make anyone else shake their heads? As if anyone from Supernatural gives a flying rat's patootie what we're up to over here… That said… I own exactly one thing and she's sitting out in the driveway. Try not to touch her. I'm funny that way.

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**Chapter 1**

"Dude, what is that _smell_?"

Sam flipped on the light switch by the door and walked farther into the motel room to stop beside Dean. Two beds. Two ugly bedspreads. One nightstand in between. A dresser against one wall with a TV bolted to it. A table and chairs, a couple of lamps. It looked like a hundred other motels and smelled about the same. Maybe a bit more stale than some. "I don't smell anything."

"What? You been hit in the face too may times? Your nose die?"

Sam merely rolled his eyes and threw his bag onto one of the beds. "Fine, Dean. It's dead. I don't care if it fell off somewhere back in Ohio. I just want to get some sleep."

Dean warily moved farther into the room, pulled the bag from his shoulder and tossed it onto the low dresser sitting along the wall opposite the beds. "You really don't smell that?" he asked incredulously.

"Smell what, man?" Sam asked tiredly.

Instead of answering, Dean continued to glance around the room. Sam's eyes widened seeing him pull the pistol from where he'd tucked it into his jeans at the small of his back. His brother's face was creased in concentration and he motioned for Sam to stay behind him.

Dean walked to the back of the small space toward the bathroom. Staying clear of the open doorway, he flipped the lights on and then off again, then moved on to the tiny closet opposite the bathroom. He put one hand on the closet doorknob, keeping a firm grip on the gun with the other.

"Dean, what are you _doing_?" Sam hissed.

His brother took his hand off the doorknob long enough to hold out a finger asking for silence and then jerked the closet door open. Apparently finding nothing out of the ordinary, he turned to face the room again, searching every inch of it with his eyes. The heater beside the door clicked on. Dean had the gun half-raised before lowering it again as the thing began to spit and cough to life, making an unbelievable racket.

"You may be reaching new heights of paranoia, Dean." Sam gave a short laugh, although he could not help an uncomfortable feeling of unease creeping up his spine. Having a job that usually ended with you dying young meant you took warnings where you could get them, even from a sometimes off-kilter partner. Sam cleared his suddenly hoarse throat. "It's just a motel room," he said in a calm, purposely soothing tone. "There's nothing wrong. There's no smell. Now get some sleep before you give me a complex."

Dean remained where he was, his gun in hand, resting against his leg. He scanned the room one last time and then a wide smile suddenly spread across his face. "What's the matter, Sammy? Am I scaring you? You need me to hold your hand?"

Sam let out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding and sat down on the bed. "You're a jerk, you know that? Like I need any help being paranoid?"

Dean raised one eyebrow. "Just trying to add a little excitement to your life. I hear it's been pretty boring lately."

"Yeah, Dean. That's why I can barely move my left arm right now, because life's been so boring."

"You should've ducked," Dean said matter-of-factly. "But, no, it's your love life I was thinking of. Though there's really nothing I can do about that. You're so hideous even I want to run."

Sam grabbed one of the pillows off the bed and threw it at his brother. Much to his chagrin, Dean caught it one handed and tucked it under an arm, simultaneously tucking his gun back into his waistband. Reflexes like Dean's made it very difficult to annoy him properly.

"Why thank you, Sam. You know how much I love an extra pillow."

Sam snorted. "I'm only thinking of you, man. I know what a delicate flower you are."

Dean's mouth quirked up at one corner in a half-smile, but he only threw the pillow onto his own bed. "I need a shower."

"Go ahead," Sam sighed. "I doubt I could move right now anyway." He threw himself back on the bed and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as his tired muscles relaxed. After a few seconds he realized Dean had stopped moving and looked up to see his brother watching him expectantly. "What?"

The cheerful mask had dropped and, for once, Dean's face was completely serious. "You really don't smell anything?"

Sam frowned, that sense of unease returning, settling in his stomach. "No."

"Whatever, dude." Dean shook himself, as if waking up, gathered a few clothes from his bag and went in the bathroom shutting the door behind him.

Thankfully, the heater of doom gave one last cough and the unbelievable noise it had been making stopped as it shut off. Sam dozed lightly listening to the soothing sounds of the shower running and his brother's quiet humming. It sounded like Itsy Bitsy Spider. Sam smiled sadly as he always did when he heard Dean singing songs from their childhood when he thought Sam wasn't listening, songs from a lost childhood.

It wasn't every night, just sometimes. Sam didn't really know what set it off. He suspected it was when something was troubling his brother, an unconscious habit when he was trying to puzzle something through. Which brought back that twinge of unease and Sam took another whiff, once again trying to smell whatever it was that had set Dean off. He still didn't smell anything.

Dean moved on to 'Animal Crackers.' Sam knew from experience his brother had a surprisingly large repertoire of songs thanks to being left with various families, buddies, preacher types, priests, etc when they were too little to go on certain hunts. He supposed it was a natural progression when Dean changed to a Noah's Ark song and Sam was reminded that Sunday School had been particularly helpful for the little ditties. Since most of the people they visited were church going people, every Sunday had been spent there.

More than that though, Sam remembered a very kind lady who would sing them to sleep at night. Dean had been older by then and had pretended to be annoyed by the childish songs, but Sam could remember how quiet he had become as soon as the woman, whose name he couldn't even remember, would start to sing in her gentle voice. Maybe it reminded Dean of their mother. He had been just old enough to remember her singing to him, though he had mentioned it only once, and had been embarrassed even at that.

Sam heard the tune change again and thought it sounded like 'Sunshine Mountain.' It was probably the 'turn your back to evil' line that appealed to him. Sam only listened, knowing that even if he brought it up, a screaming banshee wouldn't be able to get Dean to admit to singing anything other than Zeppelin, Ozzy or even Rush.

The shower shut off after several minutes and Sam considered going to steal his pillow back before Dean came out, then thought better of it since it would require moving from his comfortable position. For the first time in hours his arm wasn't throbbing. Maybe he would just sleep in his clothes, he thought. It wouldn't be the first time. His eyes grew heavier and heavier listening to the distant noise of Dean moving around in the bathroom.

"HOLY CRAP!"

Sam bolted off the bed, sprinted the few feet to the bathroom door and threw it open to find Dean half sitting, half sprawled on the floor, blood already sliding down one side of his face, staining his fresh t-shirt. Sam spared a quick glace around the tiny bathroom and saw nothing amiss, no tell-tale smudges where Dean might have struck his head on anything. Nevertheless his brother had a gash hidden somewhere in his hair on the right side of his head that was starting to pour blood. Head wounds were always messy.

"What happened?" Sam's heart was racing a mile a minute as he reached for a towel. Dean took it and pressed the cloth against the wound with one hand and with the other allowed Sam to help him off the floor to sit on the edge of the tub.

"She hit me!"

"She? Who are you talking about, Dean?"

"That no good... She friggin' HIT me!"

"Dean, FOCUS!" Sam shouted.

Dean raised his eyes as if really seeing Sam for the first time. "I was looking in the mirror..."

"Surprise, surprise."

Dean spared a glare. "And all of a sudden there was a woman standing behind me. I started to turn and she hit me!"

"Yeah, I got that part," Sam rolled his eyes. He grabbed Dean's gun from the sink and eased back into the main room, thumbing off the safety. It wasn't rock salt, but iron would do. "What did she look like?"

"I don't know," Dean snapped. "She was too busy trying to carve out my brain."

It was a tiny, sparsely furnished space and it only took a second for Sam to gage that they were once again alone. Stepping back toward Dean, he leaned his shoulders against the doorjamb, placing himself so that he could see both rooms. Looking down at his brother, he crossed his arms keeping the gun in hand. "Let's try this again. What did she look like? It's physically impossible for you to not notice a woman, Dean. Even if she's trying to kill you."

Dean raised one eyebrow, but grimaced at the pain it caused. "I can't help it if I have keen powers of observation," he mumbled.

"So observe." Sam rubbed a hand across his face, exhaustion quickly returning now that the immediate adrenaline surge was passing. His arm was also back to throbbing. _Great_. "It figures we can't even find a motel room any more without it turning into some sort of freak show."

He watched as Dean momentarily pulled the towel away from the wound on his head, frowned at the amount of blood soaked into it and then set it back in place. "You're going to need stitches in that. Let me see."

Dean waved him back angrily. "Thank you, Nurse Winchester. I think I can handle it."

Sam shook his head in annoyance and stood away from the doorjamb to go back into the room, but stopped when he heard his brother shift and clear his throat uncertainly.

"She was dark-headed, shoulder length hair, I think. But all messed up." He smirked. "Kinda like what you look like in the morning."

Sam ignored the jibe, knowing Dean was trying to make up for his harsh words as only his slightly psychotic brother could. "Old? Young?" he prompted.

"Uhhh... Medium?"

"You're killing me here."

"Hey, you're expecting great revelations from the one she snuck up behind and clobbered over the head?"

"Maybe I should give her some pointers for next time," Sam frowned.

"Whatever, dude," his brother grimaced as he shifted the towel slightly, then grinned. "Chicks dig wounded heroes." The grin faded just as quickly, however. "I only got a glance, but she looked... tired... that old before your time look... worn. Fairly modern clothes, I think."

"Did she say anything?"

"Nope. I just looked up and there she was, glaring at me in the mirror."

"Glaring?"

Dean gestured with his free hand to his head. "I get the feeling I'm not her favorite person."

"She have a weapon?"

"I just didn't get a good look. Must have. Doubt she did this with her hand."

Sam grunted. "Unless she had claws."

Dean almost groaned. "Cheerful thought."

"Well at least she's gone for now." Sam pointed at the gash, "You going to let me look at that, or am I going to have to knock you out myself?"

"Fine," Dean growled, shifting forward where he was still sitting on the edge of the tub. "Just get it done. I need some sleep."

Sam's jaw dropped, completely aghast. "Whoa. You can't seriously think we're gonna stay here." They were both tired. There was no way they could make it safely through a night in a room with some sort of creepy crawly. They'd both pass out and it would be open season on the Winchester boys.

"Look, this dump is the only thing for miles. It's this or nothing." Dean shrugged as if there were no question.

"You're crazy," Sam said, his voice rising in exasperation. He knew Dean wouldn't sleep if they stayed in the room. Or he would try not to. He was hurt now and pushing past what any man should have to. They both needed rest and they wouldn't get it here. "We'll sleep in the car," Sam added firmly.

Dean stood, pulling his 'I'm older and wiser' persona around himself, ruining the effect by swaying slightly and having to brace a hand against the wall. "No. I'm tired, ticked and heavily armed. And besides that I already paid for this room."

Sam threw up his hands, then angrily jabbed a finger in his brother's direction. "Well if whatever it is kills us, I'm holding you personally responsible."

"What are you gonna do? Kill me again?" Dean shot at Sam's retreating back as he left to rummage through their bags for the industrial sized first aid kit they kept on hand.

"Don't tempt me!" Sam shot back over his shoulder. Despite his growing annoyance, however, he hurried back. "Sit," he ordered, then made quick work of the injury, washing the cut, disinfecting it and then using the equivalent of surgical superglue, a handy item they'd added to the supply after helping a veterinarian with a little ghost problem. The vet had patched them up afterward and had been glad to share.

It was rare, but occasionally the good old-fashioned barter system came into play. Kill one ghost, get some nice new supplies. Sam mentally chuckled as he worked, effectively gluing the sides of the gash together. If the stuff was good enough for Fido then it was more than good enough for Dean. Fido was probably less trouble, certainly better behaved.

"Done." Sam stepped back, but put out a hand to help Dean stand. When he was sure Dean was steady on his feet, he handed the gun to him.

Dean mumbled a curt, "Thanks," as he brushed past him and then pulled a fresh shirt out of his bag, exchanging it for the bloodstained one he had been wearing. He threw that one in the sink and ran cold water over it to let it soak in an attempt to try and save it.

"Better do the towel, too, or housekeeping will think we've butchered somebody in here," Sam said. Just another day in the Winchester Circus, he thought wearily.

While he put the First Aid kit away, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean set his gun on the nightstand. His brother then opened the room's front door and walked outside. Sam heard the trunk of the car open and close and Dean walked back in carrying a duffel bag full of supplies and a sawed-off shotgun they kept loaded with rock salt.

Dean caught him watching and shrugged. "Remember the Boy Scout motto, Sammy."

Sam sat down heavily on his bed, leaning back against the headboard. "Dean, you locked the only boy scout we ever met in a closet with a grendilowe."

His brother smiled at the memory. "Yeah, well he wasn't prepared, now was he? Besides he was being an ass."

Sam only grunted. Truth was, the kid had been an ass. "You gonna sleep with that under your pillow?" he nodded toward the shotgun.

"Don't be ridiculous," Dean said straight-faced. "I'm going to sleep with it under _your _pillow. Mine will be busy cushioning my manfully-wounded, but somehow still strikingly handsome head."

Sam began to reach for the other pillow on his bed and then stopped seeing Dean's full Cheshire Cat grin make an appearance. The jerk would keep that one too if he threw it at him.

"See? That college education did wonders for you, Sam."

The night passed quickly and quietly. They dressed in silence, though Sam noted Dean spent no longer than necessary in the bathroom. Sam pulled his shoes on as Dean shrugged into his leather jacket and adjusted the collar to sit just where he liked it. "You ready?" he asked.

Sam nodded. "You want to talk to the desk clerk first? See if he knows of anything weird going on here? Or do you want to hit the library and check the papers."

"Desk clerk," Dean said simply. He pulled the door open and both men stopped abruptly in the doorway. The parking lot was full of police cars, lights flashing.

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_We now pause for a commercial break..._


	2. Chapter 2

**Smells Like Trouble**

Summary: Something just doesn't smell right… A motel stay gives our boys an ugly surprise.

_Thank you soooo much for the lovely reviews. You do know how to make a gal type faster! _

Usual technical hooey: Just having fun, etc etc.

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**Chapter 2**

The lights on the police cruisers were activated, but there were no sirens and no policemen immediately in view. They could hear a low rumble of people speaking, closer to the motel office off to their right. Sam caught Dean reaching for his gun and quickly smacked his hand away.

"They're not here for us," he hissed. "Behave yourself." When it came to fight or flight, Dean usually picked fight.

The two stuck their heads out and peered down the row of rooms. All of the activity appeared to be in a room about three doors down. Officers were coming in and out, all looking a little green around the gills. One of them looked up and saw the two staring from their open doorway and began to walk in their direction.

Dean frowned and Sam could almost see his brother deciding whether to try and bluff their way in. Sam put a calming hand on his arm. "Down, boy. No stories. We're just going to behave and find out what happened from the nice policeman. Got it?" Dean nodded imperceptibly and Sam gratefully saw him relax his muscles into his 'I'm just a harmless bystander' stance.

The policeman, a fortyish looking man with the typical cop crew cut, walked up to the pair and gave them a professional once over. "Gentleman?"

"Officer," Dean answered mildly, "What's going on?"

"You two stayed here last night?" the man asked instead of answering. He waited for them both to nod. "Did you hear or see anything out of the ordinary?"

Sam couldn't keep his eyes from straying to the gash poorly hidden in Dean's hair. Dean must have remembered it too because he was holding his head slightly angled away from the policeman, careful though to make it look like he was standing naturally.

"Long day on the road." Dean jerked a thumb in Sam's direction. "We got in late and went straight to bed."

Sam realized that they were standing in the open door to their room and Dean's blood-stained shirt and the towel were still soaking in the sink, not to mention a sawed off shotgun and some other lethal odds and ends sitting in a duffel bag against the wall. If his guess was right and someone had been attacked last night other than his brother, then Sam didn't want the officer seeing into their room. He gently nudged Dean to move out onto the walkway that ran in front of the rooms and followed him, shutting the suspicious looking items away from view.

"And you didn't hear anything?" The cop's glance moved back and forth between the two, wearing a purposely blank expression as he sized them up.

They both shook their heads. "No, sir," Dean offered, smirk carefully stowed for the moment. "You can hardly hear yourself think over the heater in there." Dean shot a look toward the room as if he could see the offending machine through the now closed door. Sam knew he was thinking the same thing he was. The ancient heater had made so much noise that they had slept through the cavalry arriving. More importantly they had slept through some disaster taking place only a few rooms away.

Without having to be asked they both produced their fake IDs. Using the mic at his shoulder the officer quickly checked them and Sam was grateful they were good enough to hold up to basic scrutiny. The cop noted their fake names in a notebook and handed the IDs back. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but stopped hearing noise behind him. All three men watched as a gurney, complete with a lumpy body bag, appeared from the room several yards away, being pushed by a man wearing a jacket that read 'Coroner.'

Sam felt the blood drain from his face at the sight. Someone hadn't just been attacked. Someone was dead, killed, and they had both slept through it.

"What happened?" Sam heard the catch in Dean's voice, but doubted anyone who didn't know his brother would notice. He knew Dean was furious with himself thinking someone had died and he could have prevented it.

"Cleaning woman found him this morning," the policeman wrinkled his face in distaste, "sliced to ribbons."

"Sliced?" Dean asked, adding a pained expression as he said it.

The policeman nodded. "Cut up, cuts all over him. Someone sure had something against him." He eyed them again. "You boys sure you didn't see or hear anything?" as if he found it hard to believe otherwise.

They both shook their heads again and did their best to look suitably horrified and disturbed by such unusual goings-on, and for once it wasn't completely an act. Finally the man nodded again and walked back toward the other officers still milling around the scene.

"Go start the car," Sam said quietly, already pulling the room key from his pocket. He heard the car rumble to life as he stuffed the bloody shirt and towel into a plastic bag left in the ice bucket and then shoved that into the duffel bag with the weapons. Dean wouldn't be happy if he got any of the weapons soggy. Sam quickly rinsed out the sink and then looked around the bathroom, ensuring there were no tell tale blood smears.

Normally a Do Not Disturb sign was enough to keep housekeeping from rummaging through their room, but the police just might decide to take a look while they were out. He didn't want anything to draw their interest. The blood wouldn't match the dead guy, but that wouldn't stop the police from taking a closer look at them and they certainly didn't need that.

Sam casually closed the motel room door and got into the car, setting the duffel bag in the back seat. "I'd say talking to the desk clerk is out for the moment," he remarked, watching the police still standing in a huddle between their room and the office.

Dean only nodded, his face tight and angry as he eased the car around the police cruisers toward the parking lot exit. Sam glanced over and saw he was looking in the rear-view mirror, still watching the police outside the murder scene. Then after another tense second, Dean let out the breath he'd been holding and turned out of the parking lot, heading back toward downtown, or what was considered downtown in a place this size. "Ok, so maybe we should've stayed in the car last night," he admitted.

Sam half turned in to look at his brother, shock at seeing the dead man turning to anger. "Ya think?"

Dean shifted uneasily in his seat. "I hate sleeping in the car. It makes me cranky."

"And we wouldn't want that," Sam observed. The difference between Dean happy and Dean cranky was not a whole heck of a lot sometimes. "Man, at what point did the possibility of being attacked by who knows what become better than being cramped up in the car for one lousy night?"

Dean's mouth quirked up on one side. "Would you believe me if I said I was hoping to shoot it, throw it out in the parking lot and then get a good night's sleep?"

Sam felt his anger level move from DefCon 4 to DefCon 3. Dean was going to try and laugh it off and he wasn't amused. "You can't throw ghosts out in the parking lot."

"Thank you for that, Mr. Obvious," Dean sighed, as if Sam ruined all his fun. "Well, whatever it was, it didn't come back." He paused for a beat. "Not for us anyway."

"It could've, Dean," Sam pressed, trying to get something through to his thick-headed brother. "It could've killed you."

Dean cocked his head to one side, still keeping his eyes on the road. "So why didn't it?"

Sam huffed in frustration, facing forward again. "Your guess is as good as mine."

"Cause the chick was pissed and all she did was take a swipe at me and then _poof_."

"Poof?"

"You know," Dean gestured with his fingers like a little explosion. "_Poof_. Gone. Evaporate. Whoosh. Vanish. Disappear."

Sam raised a hand for him to stop. "Thanks, I got it."

"Good, I thought I was going to have to resort to diagrams. You know I can't draw."

"So she _poofed_ and then went next door and ripped a guy to shreds," Sam paused, thinking. "That or she ripped a guy to shreds and then came after you, but had already used too much energy, was too tired to do any real damage and dematerialized."

"Dematerialized? Dude, have you been watching _Ghostbusters_ again?"

Sam cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Look, we'll just go to the library and see if we can dig up anything on the motel."

"_Poofed_ is a perfectly good word," Dean muttered.

Sam's lips twitched though he did his best not to smile. It would only encourage his brother. "One thing we do know."

"What?" Dean spared a look away from the road to glance at him.

"Whoever she is… She picked another guy over you." Sam's smile began to widen. "Maybe it's your hair. It's too short."

Dean kept his eyes resolutely on the road. "Dude, shut up."

Sam coughed dramatically, "I'm just saying."

Dean grunted. "I've told you before, Sammy. The day I start looking like Fabio," he spared a scathing glance at Sam's own long hair, "is the day I let you shoot me. Well… shoot me again anyway."

Sam's grin wobbled and then faded, but Dean only smiled and turned the radio up. Sam suspected his brother had been a drummer in a past life. He certainly liked hitting things where it hurt, and hitting them and hitting them...

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_Tune in tomorrow. Same Bat Time, Same Bat Channel. Yeesh. That was nerdy. Uhh… More to come…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Smells Like Trouble**

Summary: Something just doesn't smell right… A motel stay gives our boys an ugly surprise.

_Have I mentioned how much I like you guys? -BIG HUG-_

_Dean gets to do the talking today…

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_

**Chapter 3**

"You find anything?"

Dean looked up from the computer screen he had been staring at for what felt like hours and sat up straight, stretching the tired muscles in his back. He hadn't bothered to tell Sam how little sleep he'd had the night before. Sam had needed the rest more and funnily enough, one ghost takes a swipe at your head and you're not nearly as inclined to sleep as you were before.

He and Marigold had sat up all night just to make sure little Miss I'm-going-to-scalp-you-if-I-get-a-chance didn't make another guest appearance in their motel room. And no, he had no intentions of telling Sam that he'd named the shotgun Marigold either. A gentleman did not kiss and tell. That and Sam would never, _ever_ let him live it down.

Sam might leave him. Well, leave again. But Marigold never would. Was it weird that one of his friends, the one real constant, the one he relied on when everyone else left and everything around him fell to crap, was a sawed-off shotgun? Probably. Such was life. He supposed he would die one day with Marigold in hand still doing her best to keep the monsters at bay. Well, that was maudlin, Dean thought, mentally brushing the idea away. He had been hanging around Sam too long. Dean caught his own faint reflection in the computer screen. He needed a haircut.

What annoyed him and would not be swept aside, however, was that even though he had sat up until dawn to keep watch, he hadn't heard a thing. Even over the noise of the heater clanking like it was on its last legs, he should have heard a man being cut to pieces.

Dean focused again on his brother who was leaning over the computer desk partition. "Well?" Sam asked.

"Haven't found a thing," Dean sighed, rubbing a hand over his strained eyes. "Other than we _really_ should've stayed in the car. Our motel hasn't managed to pass a health code inspection in 10 years."

Sam shook his head, "Yeah, I didn't find anything either. I did talk to the librarian. She thinks the motel is not a place where 'a nice boy like me should be staying,' but there was nothing out of the ordinary about the motel that she could remember. Place isn't even that old. 20 years maybe."

"So no gruesome murders to speak of, no suicides, no 'Oops I accidentally put my boyfriend through a meat grinder'?"

"Not even an 'oops I've got a wicked hangnail'. It shouldn't be that difficult in a town this size. Something like this everyone would know about," Sam frowned down at him. While Dean had been working at the computer, his brother had been going through yard after yard of microfiche. Sam looked about as disgruntled as Dean felt.

"The librarian already knew all about today's murder," Sam continued. "They're not hiding anything. She told me all about him. Guy's name was Mitchell, local guy, married, three kids, worked in an office."

"So what was he doing at the motel?" Dean asked, but Sam didn't bother to give an answer since there was none. Dean scratched absentmindedly at his hair, then hissed, encountering the previous night's injury. "Maybe we missed something."

"I doubt it." Sam had a pencil tucked behind his ear and Dean thought he looked like a particularly unkempt accountant. "We've been here for hours, man. There's nothing to find."

"Dude, ghosts don't just appear. They are where they are for a reason."

Sam came around the partition, forcing Dean to look up at his Sequoia tall brother. He knew the universe was against him. He was reminded of it every time he noticed his younger brother was taller than he was. At least he wasn't better looking. That would have been cruel and unusual punishment.

"Look, we've been here all afternoon looking through this stuff. It's going to be dark again soon. We should talk to the desk clerk back at the motel before then," Sam urged.

"Fine," Dean said, pushing back from the computer table with perhaps more vigor than was strictly necessary. He hated it when things got complicated. Complicated meant messy. And messy increased the odds of getting hurt. He much preferred the tried and true 'Give me something to shoot' method and then moving on to the next job. A very fulfilling sort occupation as far as he was concerned. And if you occasionally got to save the girl in the process, all the better. Messy, however, usually ended up with Sammy being the Damsel in Distress and that pissed him off no end. Yup, Dean nodded. Find the bad guy. Point. Shoot. Marigold liked it better that way too. And Dean liked keeping Marigold happy almost as much as he liked keeping Sammy happy.

* * *

Dean and Sam walked into the motel office to find the same slender, middle aged man who had been on duty the night before when they'd checked in. His hair was carefully in place and he was wearing a polo shirt and slacks. The look was a little up-tight for Dean, but then not everyone was as wash-and-wear as he was. 

"Checking out?" he said. "I know it's technically too late, but it's ok. I've been making exceptions because of the dead guy. No one wants to stay tonight. No extra charge."

Dean immediately raised a hand in the traditional 'whoa there' gesture. "Dude, chill. We're not checking out."

"Oh," the man's shoulders slumped. "What do you want then? I can move you to another room. You want a room farther away from the dead guy's? Cause that's easy enough. Got an open one here by the office."

"We're good, really." Dean stepped closer and leaned against the counter in a conspiratorial manner. "But, uhhh… Did you know the guy who got killed?"

"Why do you want to know?" the clerk asked suspiciously.

Dean gave the barest of smiles. "Just curious… Kinda freaky it happening only a few doors down… You know him?"

The clerk hesitated for several more seconds and then finally shrugged. "Yeah, he was a regular."

"A regular?" Sam asked, moving closer. The man was a local. He shouldn't have been a regular.

The man looked at Sam like he was being dense. "Yeah, a regular. You know… have a fight with the wife… looking for a little… companionship…" He shrugged again.

"That happen a lot?" Dean asked and caught Sam giving him a look. His tone must not have been as neutral as he'd been going for.

The clerk had apparently heard the change in his voice too because the suspicious expression he had been wearing returned. "More often than you might think."

No wonder the librarian had disapproved of a 'nice boy' like his brother staying here. Dean stood up from where he was leaning and purposely loosened up his stance, schooling his expression into an almost bashful grin. "And do you ever help people acquire a little 'companionship'?" Sam shot him a '_What are you doing_?' glare, but thankfully remained silent, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

A knowing expression spread across the man's face and he relaxed, feeling back in familiar territory. "You two looking for some fun? I know some nice ladies."

Dean ordered himself to remain calm, though it took every ounce of concentration he had not to punch the clerk and then kick him while he was down. There were enough real monsters in this world without bastards like this one adding to the general misery of humanity. Finding a pretty lady to spend an evening with was one thing, but a woman who couldn't afford to say no was another thing altogether. Women were a precious commodity… He didn't like them being used badly.

Everyone had choices to make. He didn't like those choices being taken from anyone. Sam had left. That was his choice. Dad had left. That was his choice. And because they'd left, Dean knew where he stood with them, painful as that was to think about. Dean would take the harsh reality of being someone's afterthought, rather than the mockery of paying a woman to pretend she cared. If a woman wanted him, fine. But every woman should have the right to tell him to take a hike. And if he could live with being alone, then so could every other poor bastard on the planet.

Their father could have forced Sam to stay. Or Dean could have badgered him into it, given enough time. But Sam would have hated their father, and then hated them both for it. So Dean had chosen to let him go, chosen to be alone rather than make his brother stay. He had set Sam free although it had left him alone. Because after that, even when Dad had been with him he had been alone.

Still he couldn't have made Sam to stay with him. It would've been wrong. It would have killed everything in Sam that he loved, that made Sam, Sam. He couldn't force Sam to stay any more than he could pay a woman to stay with him. Alone was better than a forced companion who had to hide the fact that she hated you, hated the job she was being forced to do, hated that she had no other choice than to be with you. Dean wouldn't take Sam's choices from him, and he wouldn't take a woman's either.

"Did you find a _friend_ for the dead guy last night?" Dean knew his anger was soaking through despite his efforts when the man took a half step back.

"You cops?"

"No," Sam said, purposely drawing the man's attention. "We just want to make sure that the same thing's not going to happen to _us_. That's all."

"Yeah, well he must've found his own entertainment last night, cause I never saw anybody leave that room."

"You normally keep an eye on the rooms?" Sam pressed.

"It's my job. I keep an eye on things. Owner gets ticked if anything gets in the papers."

"I'm sure he's just peachy today." Well that ruined that idea, Dean thought. _Crap, crap and double crap_. No one to talk to who might have been with the guy. He knew the man's 'date' hadn't killed him, but she might have seen something before running for it. Dean cleared his throat. "Anything like this ever happen around here before, a guy getting killed like this? Or maybe a girl?"

"No way," the clerk shook his head. "This ain't Chicago, you know?" He eyed them. "So you guys want me to make a call for you or not?"

Before Dean could reply, Sam put a hand on his arm. Dean shrugged it off, but not before realizing his hands were already fists at his sides. "No," Sam said, answering for him then grabbing his arm again and nearly pulling him out the door to the office.

"I wouldn't have hit him," Dean growled once they were outside, walking back to the room.

"Sure, Dean. You're the soul of discretion," Sam snorted. "That's why the Boy Scout ended up locked in the closet."

"Yeah, well, he was an even bigger ass than the clerk," Dean said, pulling the room key from his pocket. "But let me know if you see a grendilowe around here. It has a date with that guy."

Dean unlocked the door to their room and stepped inside, but stopped so fast that Sam ran into him.

"What are you doing, Dean?" Sam said angrily, moving around him.

"Dude, tell me you can't _smell_ that!"

Sam raised his hands in defeat. "Not that again. Dean, there is no sm…"

Dean watched as his brother tentatively looked around the room, his brow wrinkling in concentration as he took a slow, measured breath.

"What is that? Smells like something rotten."

"No," Dean said with certainty. "It smells like something died."

* * *

_Pardon me if someone else has used the name Marigold. It was just too perfectly Freudian and I couldn't resist. I'm sure Dean's car has a name too, but I'm not sure we're ready for that. More to come…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Smells Like Trouble**

_Merci beaucoup to you lovely people who review. You make my day._

You know the drill…

* * *

**Chapter 4**

It was well past midnight. Sam sat back against the headboard and yawned. Dean was sitting on the other bed, his trusty shotgun beside him, but he had nodded off over an hour ago. Sam let him sleep. He doubted his brother had had any the night before. It was the usual game they played, trading off, but pretending they both got some rest. They'd done it so long now, it was second nature.

Sam pulled his jacket closer around himself. They'd decided to leave the noisy heater off and the cold was starting to seep into his bones, wasn't doing his sore arm any good either. So far he hadn't seen or heard anything out of the ordinary. He was beginning to think this was all a figment of Dean's imagination. His brother had only cracked his head on the bathroom sink and some normal human had killed the guy in the other room. It's wasn't like the motel had a great reputation. There was nothing in the papers, nothing anywhere. No rumors of a haunting. Nothing except that smell… and either the smell had vanished or they had just gotten used it. But Dean said he'd seen a woman…

_A woman who was now standing at the foot of Dean's bed, staring down at him._

Sam's heart began pounding in his chest as he reached for the gun sitting beside him on the bed. The ghost's head snapped up and looked at him, raising a hand and wagging a finger back and forth. 'No, no.'

Sam left his hand on the gun, but did not raise it. He didn't want to provoke her. She was too close to Dean. Whoever she was, she wasn't doing anything. Yet. Just looking down at his brother's sleeping form as if studying him. Of course if she made a move in Dean's direction he would blow her to kingdom come.

Dean had been right. She had that old before her time look. She looked tired, worn, which wasn't really odd, he supposed. Ghosts were rarely looking their best. Her hair was a rat's nest, she was barefoot and the mini-skirt and too tight t-shirt she was wearing had seen better days.

Sam felt his heart skip a beat as the ghost again turned her head to look at him, the image of the person that had been flickering like a light bulb trying to go out. It always gave him the creeps and he tightened his grip on the gun as the woman's black eyes met his gaze.

"You are not one," she said, her raspy voice echoing in the chilly air.

Sam's breath caught in his throat. He didn't know what he wasn't, but he was grateful for it. He had a feeling that being whatever it was meant you ended up as a human shish kebab. Slowly her gaze traveled back to Dean, who was beginning to stir, despite his exhaustion.

The ghostly figure studied him again, cocking her head to one side, almost like Dean did, Sam thought. The ghost frowned and then raised her right hand and scratched through her wild hair and then Sam knew it wasn't just a coincidence. He'd seen Dean make that same nervous gesture every day since he'd come to get him from school. She was confused, angry, and studying his sleeping brother with frightening intensity, replicating his gestures.

Dean woke, as if sensing the tension in the room and lifted his head, his eyes widening at the sight of the ghost whose gaze was trying to bore into his very soul. Dean grasped the shotgun and began to raise it to fire.

"No, Dean," Sam said lowly, though forcefully.

"Dean," the ghost said in her raspy voice, as if adding the name to what she already knew. "You are not like them… although you could be." She cocked her head to one side again, mirroring him as he watched her.

"Like who?" Dean asked softly, almost like he was afraid to speak too loudly and wake the monster that had tried to kill him the night before.

"You fear solitude as a child fears the darkness," she continued, her voice hoarse, paying no attention to the question. "And yet you will choose to remain alone."

Sam glanced nervously toward his brother whose suddenly pain-filled eyes were fixed on the woman. Dean rubbed at his chest as if it hurt. And then Sam saw him do something he would have thought impossible.

Dean looked _down_.

Dean took his eyes off the thing at the end of the bed that was only a step away from killing him. His head was turned slightly so that Sam couldn't see his face. In all their years of hunting, Sam had never seen his brother take his eyes off the prize, never look away from his quarry. Dean met every threat head on. Sheer self preservation meant you kept your eyes on the thing trying to skewer you. And yet Dean had looked away, away from the ghost and away from him. She must have hit him dead-center.

"Dean?" he whispered.

Dean momentarily looked in his direction, but a strangled noise drew their attention back to the woman, still standing at the end of the bed. The ghost began to flicker furiously like a silent movie reel. She took a halting step back from the bed, raising her head, looking from side to side as if hearing something they could not.

Theywatched in horror as blood began to pour from wounds appearing one by one all over her body. Her clothing was ripped to shreds by an invisible weapon as she cringed trying to escape the barrage of cuts and slices tearing her skin apart. The woman opened her mouth to scream and a final, deep, killing slash appeared across her throat, the blood flowing out in a cascade. Over and over she tried to scream, but her ruined throat would not allow it. Then almost as soon as it had begun, the ghostly image flickered again and the wounds were gone.

The woman brought the full weight of her gaze back to Dean and Sam saw him tighten his grip on the shotgun, readying himself for an attack.

"You are not one who will pay for my favors," she said slowly, having to work to speak and now Sam understood all too well why her voice was only a hoarse echo of what it should have been. "But there are others who will pay." Her eyes became pits of fire as she spoke. "They will pay and pay and pay." The woman turned her face up and closed her eyes as if listening to a distant song. "They paid…" her voice lowered to a raspy hiss, "And now they will pay."

And just like that she was gone. In the blink of an eye, they were alone.

Dean sprang from the bed. "This is so not good." He began pacing back and forth. "This is so, so not good. How many rooms are there in this place?"

"I don't know, but there's no way we can check them all." Sam headed for the door and Dean followed close behind. They both ran out into the parking lot and stood back, scanning the motel rooms for any sign of a problem within.

"How in the world are we going to find her before she kills someone?" Dean asked. "We can't just break down all the doors."

In silence their eyes moved from room to room, finding only that, silence. There were no tell-tale movements of a curtain, no sounds of a struggle, no flickering lights, no screams for help. Sam had a sneaking suspicion there never would be. The woman had been unable to scream at her own death. He doubted she allowed her victims that luxury.

"Are we just supposed to wait until morning and let the cleaning lady find another corpse?" Dean demanded. "Cause that idea sucks."

"Go get the EMF meter. We'll do a quick sweep past the rooms, see if we get anything. I put it in the bedside table," Sam said.

Dean made a noise as if irritated that the thought hadn't already occurred to him and took off at a jog into the room. Sam expected him to reappear immediately and frowned when he didn't. The thing was sitting in the drawer in plain sight.

After another moment, Sam swore and ran back to the room. Dean was standing in the middle between the two beds and Sam instantly knew why. The smell hadn't disappeared earlier. They had just gotten used to it. After being outside for several minutes and returning, he could smell it again, the putrid rot in the air. He grabbed a chair and jammed it against the door to prop it open and ventilate the room.

Dean pointed toward the bed he'd been sleeping in. "I think it's coming from here."

Sam grimaced. "Maybe it's from the ghost?"

Dean shook his head and pointed again. "Help me out here, Sam. I'm thinking I may know why Snow White keeps coming back to our room." He waved Sam around to the other side of the bed.

"What are we doing, Dean?"

"We're going to pull the mattress off," he replied quietly.

The full stench hit them in a wave as they jerked the mattress to the floor, revealing the box spring underneath. The cloth covering had been either cut or torn, big enough for the killer to stuff the woman's corpse inside, her bloodied limbs askew, her wide terrified eyes staring at the ceiling. Her ruined throat was gaping and torn below her mouth, still open in a silent scream.

The body couldn't be more than a few days old.

Dean straightened and took a step back from the bed. "Dude, I told you it smelled."

* * *

_Well, I hope the explanation for the smell met with your approval. One of my favorite urban legends… Someone checks into a hotel, notices a foul smell… and you know the rest… Kinda puts checking in at your hotel in a different light, huh? Ya know… Now that I think of it… The whole reason for this story may be that I really need a vacation and was dreaming of a nice cushy hotel somewhere…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Smells Like Trouble**

_We're in the home stretch… Bear with me._

See the top of the story for the usual hoohaa.

* * *

**Chapter 5**

The stench was unbelievable now that the body was no longer contained in its makeshift coffin. Dean covered his nose and mouth with his sleeve, trying not to gag. Sam was turning greener by the second and Dean mentally started to count. Sure enough, at four, his brother ran for the bathroom and he could hear him throwing up everything he'd even thought about eating the day before.

Dean considered going to help, but decided against it. If he moved too much he'd probably end up right where Sam was and it was hard to be in charge of a situation when you were heaving your guts up. The only blessing was that because the body had been stuffed in the mattress there weren't any bugs. Bugs and bodies. Put them together and what have you got? A quick trip to Ralphtown. Maggots had never helped him sleep better, that's for sure.

Sam came back into the room, still looking like death on a cracker, keeping a washcloth over his mouth. "What do we do now?" he demanded, waving with his free hand toward the remains.

"What do you mean 'what do we do?'" Dean asked incredulously. "We salt and burn the chick before she kills anyone else."

"But Dean," Sam said, then stopped involuntarily gagging again at the smell.

"No buts. We might already be too late." Dean turned away and headed for the bag sitting against the wall with the needed supplies.

"NO," Sam said with such force that Dean turned around despite himself and raised an eyebrow, waiting. Sam just looked at him.

"Spill it, Sam!" he barked

Sam pulled the washcloth away from his mouth, anger overcoming his queasiness. "This is a murder scene, Dean! We've got to call the police. If we burn the body, they won't ever know about it. They won't be able to collect any evidence. No evidence, no catching the killer. She's only been dead a couple of days."

"Look, it's probably whoever was in this room the night before we got here. We go shake down the desk clerk and get the info," Dean answered reasonably. "Then we'll take care of it."

Sam's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Take care of it? We're not cops, Dean. That's not our job or our place! Cops catch bad guys, we catch ghosts."

"Exactly, Sam… And we've got a nasty spook running around our motel ready to kill anyone who hires a 'woman of ill-repute'."

Sam was momentarily stymied by his phrasing. Sometimes the kid looked at him like he was dumb as a post, Dean thought. He would have smiled if the situation weren't so desperate, but the ghost could be killing someone in another room while they were standing here twiddling their thumbs.

"Are you telling me you could just hunt down whoever did this and kill them?" Sam asked quietly, almost as if he were afraid of being overheard.

"Monsters are monsters." Dean's voice was hard. "Look at that woman," he nodded toward the bed, "and tell me whoever did that wasn't an animal that needs to be put down."

Sam only shook his head, disbelief written on his face. "We can't just kill him, Dean. He's a person… A _man_."

Dean moved closer to his brother. Sam looked so troubled, he almost put an arm on his shoulder, but stopped himself. "Sam, listen," Dean poured every ounce of persuasion into his voice that he could muster, "if we let the cops take her, we'll have to wait days, maybe weeks, before they'll release the body and we can burn it. How many people could she kill in that time?"

"We could sneak into the morgue in a few days after they examine the body," Sam tried.

Dean was already shaking his head before Sam was even finished. He straightened to his full height, much good it did him with his brother. If persuasion wasn't going to work, he'd have to settle for pulling rank. "She could kill more people in the meantime and I won't allow that, Sam. The cops can't stop those murders from happening. We can." Dean knew he was getting louder and louder but he couldn't stop himself. "I'm sorry she's dead. I really am. My guess is she had a crappy life and I know she had an even crappier death, but we can't let her kill more people even if that means letting the guy who did this get away. We're doing this."

"Dean, if the guy gets away, he'll do it again. He'll kill more women. That's no better." Sam's voice was calm and quiet, _reasonable_. Sam closed the distance between them and put his hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean had to fight the urge to brush it away. Sam had never needed the distance he did, not physically or emotionally.

Dean clenched his jaw in irritation. "Sam, listen…"

Sam cut him off with only a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. "We've got to let the cops do their thing." He stared at Dean, looking down at him like _he_ was the older brother talking to a disobedient child. "Even if we get a name from the clerk, the guy could be half-way across the country by now. We'll never find him. The police have the resources to hunt a man like this. We don't. We have our own hunting to do, our own fight."

Dean turned away, stepping out of Sam's reach and away from his brother's worried, pleading eyes, his oh so reasonable voice. He knew what needed to be done, but would Sam ever forgive him if he did it. Would he be able to forgive himself if Sam was right and two weeks from now they saw a news report of another dead hooker found stuffed in a motel mattress.

His eyes trailed back to the woman's body. Dean knew he wouldn't be able to forgive himself either way, dead johns or dead hookers. He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. Well, _crap_. He'd learned to live with hating himself a long time ago. But Sam… The look on his brother's face, the disappointment, Dean wasn't sure he could live with seeing that look.

Dean grit his teeth. "Fine. Make the call." They would just have to stay and deal with the ghost as best they could until they could burn the body.

"Hey, is there a problem?"

Dean's entire body snapped to attention and he turned toward the door, which in his annoyance he'd forgotten was standing open. Good hunter's instincts, Dean, he berated himself. Sam, too, had stopped on his way to the phone.

The clerk from the front desk appeared in the doorway, but stopped dead at the horrific sight in front of him. Dean was struck once again by just how uptight the guy looked and right now the guy looked like his head was about to explode.

Dean held up a hand to keep him at bay. _Holy hand grenades_, didn't they have enough to deal with? "We thought there was a funny smell and were checking it out. My brother was just about to call the cops." He gestured to Sam to get to the phone.

To his surprise, the clerk stepped farther into the room, kicked the chair away from the door and let it swing shut. He pulled a gun from his waistband and leveled it at them. "I think that would be a bad idea."

"Well, _great_," Dean said in disgust, throwing up his hands. "That's all we need." He heard Sam take in a steadying breath and knew he too was thinking furiously, looking for an opportunity. Sam was just quieter while he did it.

"Shut up," the man ordered. "You get away from the phone," he told Sam.

With the door closed, the stench quickly became overwhelming and Dean once again covered his nose and mouth using his shirtsleeve as Sam moved to stand beside him at the foot of the bed. He noticed that the gag-inducing stink seemed to have little effect on the clerk and Dean guessed this was not the first time he'd been near a body in such a state of decay. Sam was right. This man had killed before. He would kill again, and again, as often as he could get away with it…

The thoughts tumbled through his mind over and over. Dean was starting to see red and could think of nothing better than kicking the crap out of the guy and stuffing him in the other mattress. His eyes trailed to Marigold sitting just out of reach on the dresser. He had put her down to move the top mattress. Still, he could feel the reassuring weight at his back of the pistol he had tucked into his waistband, hidden by his shirt.

"You really should have changed rooms when I offered," the man said angrily, his face transformed from the uptight, but mild clerk's mask into a man who could butcher a woman and leave her in a motel room to rot.

"Then what did you put us in this room for in the first place, you moron," Dean shot back. Sam put a restraining hand on his arm. _Right, right_, Dean nodded that he got the message. No taunting the homicidal maniac. He'd always had trouble with that concept. Just couldn't help it.

The man's face became a livid red. "Because of all the rooms, you had to ask for this one! I didn't have any reason to say no. Besides I figured you wouldn't stay more than a night."

Dean mentally cursed his luck. He'd asked for the room because it was the most easily defensible.

"We weren't going to until we ran across your lady friend here," Sam said and Dean guessed his brother was just a little bit ticked off himself. Maybe they both needed the lecture about not taunting people with guns pointed at them.

The clerk shifted so that the gun, which Dean noted was annoyingly steady, was aimed at Sam. Dean's eyes narrowed. He really didn't like people pointing guns at Sam.

"He's too tall," Dean said in a nonchalant tone. "He won't fit in the mattress."

"SHUT UP," the man shouted. "Just shut up!" He brought the gun back to point at Dean. There, Dean thought, that's better.

_No that is definitely not better._

Dean's breath hissed out in shock and beside him he heard Sam gasp. The ghost flickered to life behind the clerk and began a halting walk forward. She bore every wound the man had given her, her body a mass of blood and ruined flesh. The stench in the room suddenly became suffocating and Dean had to blink as his eyes began to water. Between one blink and the next, a knife appeared in the woman's hand and she raised it high as she stalked toward them.

"Dude, get behind me," Dean ordered. Again, he looked toward Marigold, but he knew the man would shoot him if he lunged for the shotgun.

"What?" the man asked in total confusion.

"_Get_. _Behind_. _Me_," Dean said again, putting every bit of authority he could into it. He reached for the gun tucked into his belt.

"Don't move," the enraged man nearly screamed.

"_Please_," Sam added, finding his voice. "She's going to…"

Sam never got the last word out. The ghost raised the knife high, reaching around the oblivious clerk and drew the blade savagely across his throat, digging it deep into his neck, making certain to open an artery running up the side of his neck.

The man's eyes bulged in bewilderment and suddenly dawning horror, the gun forgotten as he clutched at his ravaged throat, blood spurting in time with his heartbeat.

The ghost disappeared and the clerk fell to the ground, air gurgling through the bloody wound as the stricken murderer tried to breathe. His mouth opened in a silent scream as brutal gashes began appearing one at a time all over his body. In mere seconds, his invisible assailant was reducing him to ribbons.

"Salt, Dean, where'd we put the salt," Sam shouted.

Dean looked around him trying to force his mind to work, finally seeing the duffel bag on the floor behind him. He tore it open and threw the canister of salt to Sam who caught it, already turning, and began scattering it over the woman's corpse. Dean stood with the lighter fluid and simultaneously began dousing the body, all the while hearing the gurgling and thrashing of the man behind them. Dean fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He flicked the lighter with one hand and with the other pushed Sam back as the body and the bed with it caught fire in a massive whoosh.

The woman appeared between them and they both involuntarily stepped back from the blood encrusted ghost. She was not looking at them, however. She was looking down at the bed. "Let it burn," she hissed.

"What?" Dean thought perhaps he'd misunderstood.

"The whole place," she rasped. "Let it all burn."

Sam was looking at him past the woman to see how he would answer, and Dean only shrugged. "Yes, Ma'am."

The ghost raised her face upward and sighed, her image flickering as something shuddered through her, and then in a flash of fire she was gone.

The flames were spreading onto the carpeting around them. Dean turned and saw that the clerk, behind them on the floor, was no longer moving, a pool of blood surrounding him as he stared blankly at the ceiling. "Sam?"

"Yeah, Dean," his brother said, beginning to cough from the smoke.

"Salt him too. I don't want to have to come back here," he said, his tone matter of fact.

Sam only nodded and began scattering salt from the industrial sized canister. Dean added a bit of lighter fluid and the man's clothes immediately caught fire from the carpet. Almost robotically, the two gathered their meager belongings and left the motel room shutting the door behind them.

* * *

_Just a little bit more… Sam wouldn't be Sam if he didn't ask questions. And Dean… well Dean wouldn't be Dean if he didn't get to have the last word…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Smells Like Trouble**

_Well, here you have it all finished up… Thanks once again to you nice reviewers who let me know someone out there was enjoying this.

* * *

_

**Chapter 6**

The motel, such as it was, had no sprinkler system and had no fire alarm as far as Dean could see. They threw their bags into the back, climbed into the car and he backed it up to the far edge of the parking lot to give them the best vantage point. Dean noted that there were several cars parked in the lot, but they were all grouped at the other end of the motel. He guessed the clerk had arranged for the other customers to be in the rooms on the other side of the building just in case he needed to take care of business in their room.

They sat watching until the flames had spread from their room into the rooms on either side and up into the roof. Sam was frowning, unnaturally still as he watched the fire, pain written on his features to such an extent that Dean actually gave him a quick once over to make sure he hadn't been burned. Sam looked fine, so Dean assumed he was doing what Sam did best. Brood. He shrugged. Everyone had to have a hobby, he guessed.

Dean didn't want the police to have his cell number, so he left the car long enough to go to the pay phone on the wall outside the office. He made a quick 911 call and then hurried back to the car, settling in with a sigh.

"They'll be here in a few minutes," he said, watching as the flames burned the curtains away from the windows as the fire spread to yet another room. It would take ten more minutes for the fire to reach the occupied part of the motel. The fire department would get the people out before then and no one would ever remember two brothers who had been staying on the other side of the motel. "We should get going." He made no move to put the car in gear, however.

"So go."

Dean turned slightly to look at his brother. "You ok?"

"We never even knew her name," Sam said blankly.

Dean thought back and realized it was true. "I'm sorry about that," he replied honestly. They didn't know the clerk's name either, but that didn't bother him. The victims' names, they were etched in his mind. But the monsters… they all got lumped together and thrown in a corner of his brain somewhere. He didn't like thinking about them. If they came out to play, Dean mentally kicked the crap out of them and told them to go sit in their corner again. But the victims… they were why he fought. He didn't like to think he would forget one. Granted, this little trip was just freaky enough, he doubted it would be easily forgotten.

"What she said about you…" His brother still didn't look at him.

Dean shrugged. "Hey, she also tried to kill me. I'd take anything she said with a grain of salt."

Sam glanced over at him. "I'm trying to be serious here, man. No salt jokes."

Surprise, surprise. Sam was feeling serious. Dean so did not want to discuss this. "Sam, you know I love the ladies, but if there was ever a woman to ignore, it would be the homicidal ghost of a dead prostitute." He nodded to punctuate the statement. "And feel free to quote me on that."

"Dean." Sam was using his, 'I'm warning you' voice.

Dean sighed and fought back a groan. Hello, kids. It's time for the Sam Winchester Touchy-Feely Flower Power Hour. Today's topic? Let's discuss our insecurities! For crying out loud, if he wanted to talk about his feelings… well, that really wasn't going to happen, so why pretend. "Sam, she… What she said doesn't matter."

Sam only raised an eyebrow. "I think it does."

"Yeah, well I'm in charge of this little operation, so what I say matters. This doesn't." Dean nodded again to say that the issue was closed.

In truth, he'd thought he was having a heart attack when he woke up to see the ghost staring down at him. And when she'd spoken… _You fear solitude as a child fears the darkness._

Just thinking about it made his breath catch in his throat… which was the reason he didn't want to think about it. He _certainly_ didn't want to talk about it. He knew he was a screwed up mess. What good did it do to dwell on it? None that he could think of. Why did being a screwed up mess mean that he should have to talk about it all the time?

Dean heard the sound of sirens in the distance. He put the car in gear and pulled out of the parking lot, in the opposite direction of the approaching engines.

* * *

As they drove away from the burning motel, Sam sat back in the seat and cast sidelong glances at his brother. Dean's expression was stony. As usual he didn't want to talk about what had happened. He didn't want to talk about the fact that the ghost had taken one swipe at him and left in confusion to go after a more certain target. He didn't want to discuss that he, of all people, had passed some test. That the ghost had known without a doubt that Dean would rather be alone, a thing that terrified him more than anything, than go to a woman who had to be paid to stay with him. If no one wanted him, then he would remain alone and abandoned, even though it might break him. Sam tucked it all away to mull over later, yet another piece of the puzzle that was his brother.

"I'll tell you what _does_ bother me," Dean said suddenly.

"What?"

"I slept on that bed two nights in a row, dude!" he said, twisting up his face in disgust. "That is _nasty_."

Sam had to laugh, the tension surrounding them fading. "It's what you get for stealing my pillow."

"You _gave_ it to me… And thanks for having my back, by the way," Dean frowned. "How long had Psycho Chick been staring at me while I was sleeping and you didn't shoot her? She could've ripped my face off!"

"About that, Dean," Sam said, turning so he could see him completely. "While you were sleeping… you mumbled something."

Dean grunted, wrinkling his brow in worry. "What?"

"Who's Marigold?"

Dean's expression cleared, like the sun coming out after a storm, laughter welling up from deep in his chest. It was such a rare and beautiful thing that Sam had to smile in response. Finally, Dean reached over and turned on the radio.

"Never you mind, Sammy," he laughed. "Never you mind."

* * *

_Well… there you have it. It's been swell. I always enjoy spending time with the boys. Hope you did too!_


End file.
